UP THE PAINTED CINDER-BLOCK, STEEL-PIPE STAIRWELL, VERNON enters at the sixth floor and walks along the hallway. There are its familiar smells. In a small door-less room, two ironing boards with cast-iron footings stand unused. As always. Someone is suddenly passing; Vernon takes a look to be sure it isn’t Anthony.
There is the door, heavily varnished; a feeling is in him that this is all wrong, another mistake. He takes a breath, hesitates. Get out of here, he tells himself. Go somewhere and die. He taps the door with his knuckles in the old way. He will be told to go away.
Nothing happens. He hears nothing. It’s mid-afternoon, he thinks. Is he here? Was he here before at this time of day?
Vernon taps again. He hears something this time—he is certain. A chair scraping, a bed squeaking. He waits, inches from the door.
“Someone there?” a voice says.
“It’s me,” Vernon says to the door.
Gradually, the door is opened. On the other side of the chain is Anthony’s youthful face. “I was working,” he says. “What do you want?”
“I need to talk,” Vernon whispers. “Please let me in.”
Anthony only looks at him, before turning his face downward.
“I need help,” Vernon says. “I’m in trouble.”
“Aren’t we all,” Anthony says.
“It’s serious,” Vernon says.
“What is it?” Anthony says.
“I can’t just say. Please let me in.”
Anthony still makes no move to unchain the door. He looks at Vernon, looks away, looks at him again.
“Are you alone?” Vernon says, as if this is the problem.
“No, but you are.”
Vernon only looks through the opening, without understanding.
“That was supposed to be funny,” Anthony says.
Vernon still only looks; he has a glimpse of what he often felt like before in Anthony’s presence, when he did not understand. “You’ve got to help me,” he says.
Anthony makes an expression. “Vernon,” he says. “Listen to me. I’m going to tell you something for your own good. When we were together, it was okay for you to come to me with your problems. It’s not like that now. I know that may seem awfully cold, but the sooner you face it, the sooner you’re going to begin to feel better about yourself.”
Vernon is looking at him. “I’m in serious trouble,” he says. “It’s life and death.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“I can’t say—out here,” Vernon manages to say. “It’s personal.”
“Vernon, I have news for you. You are so naive. Everyone is in personal trouble. Do you understand? Everyone. Trouble is what life is.” The door is closing. “I’m sorry,” Anthony is saying. “I have work to do. I’m sorry. Just go away, will you. Try to grow up.”
The door closes, catches.
Vernon needs a moment to turn and start away. Then he knows, as if someone else is possessing him, as if time is slipping again, that he is walking down the hall. And he seems to think that he feels better now. It was what he wanted. To ask, and to be turned down.